


Lost Reflections

by thecaptainspeaks



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: F/F, Swearing, There will be a happy ending, This is just pure angst, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaptainspeaks/pseuds/thecaptainspeaks
Summary: Hope is a dangerous four-letter word.She wanted to look in on it again. For old time’s sake. The past few weeks had been difficult, to say the least. It never failed to amaze her just how quickly life could change.Scylla uses Spree work to look in on her old bedroom and gets more than she bargained for: hope.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 56
Kudos: 295





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously this is pure angst. Decided to go multi-chap, enjoy! TW for torture in ch 5, details in notes for how to avoid it.

She wanted to look in on it again. For old time’s sake.

The past few weeks had been difficult, to say the least. It never failed to amaze her just how quickly life could change.

Dancing with Raelle at the Bellweather wedding, she was as happy as she dared to let herself be. It felt so nice to just sway gently back and forth to the music, to see Raelle’s eyes light up, to be held in those arms.

When the clock chimed six times Scylla’s life fell to shit.

She knew the Spree wouldn’t be happy with her for not delivering Raelle to them, but she never imagined the response would be so swift and brutal. It all happened so fast – the generals and other officers forming the wall of wind to beat back the balloons (so _ many _ balloons). Raelle leaving a quick kiss on her lips before rushing off to help in all the chaos. Scylla standing transfixed on the dancefloor, horrified by what it meant. For her, and for Raelle.

_ Raelle _ ‒

The balloons were a distraction. She had to find Rae‒

That was the last thing Scylla remembered before she woke up chained to a cold metal chair with a vocal neutralizer around her neck. Her dress jacket gone, and her combat charm with it. The thought of Raelle’s gift in the hands of the Spree‒

The thought of  _ Raelle _ in the hands of the Spree‒

When it turned out the army had her instead, well. Small mercies.

They did all they could to break her. Starvation. Sleep deprivation. They even tried driving her mad with discordant seed sounds for hours on end. Still she refused to give anything up. Not that she had any great amount of intel, but what little she had was hers and hers alone. She was so certain there was nothing they could do to her that would make her talk.

Scylla was wrong about that.

Sass and sarcasm were her weapons of choice when all else failed. Somehow the less power she had in any situation, the easier it was for her to let any little cutting jab that popped into her brain out. It annoyed Alder to no end, and she noted with pride that at times it absolutely infuriated Anacostia. She knew that deep down some of what she said hit a nerve or two. Sometimes she even thought Anacostia was amused.

The next time she heard the bolt slide out of its lock she was ready to give Anacostia another hard time. When they dragged in an unconscious Raelle and dropped her on the cold stone floor just out of Scylla’s reach any and all quips dropped from her tongue.

Sweet intoxicating relief filled her at the sight. Raelle was here, and okay. The Spree didn’t have her. She was safe.

There was so much she needed to tell her. How much time did they have?

This had to be a trick. A trap.

Waiting for Raelle to wake up felt like an eternity. Scylla’s heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she began to stir, blinking uncertain in the harsh lights.

“This can’t be real...”

“It’s me, it’s really me.”

“They told me you were dead.”

Scylla’s heart broke, a messy, jagged crack right through its center. But she had to keep it together, if only for a little bit longer. Raelle had to know. She held Scylla’s face in her hands so gently, so tenderly, as if Scylla might shatter, when she was the one who looked too fragile to touch.

“This is all you need to know: I love you, Raelle, and I would  _ never _ do anything to hurt you.”

Raelle peppered wet, messy kisses all over her face, her lips.

“I believe you, I believe you…” Her voice cracked between sobs, “I-I love you.”

Her chest swelled at the words; she had known how Raelle felt (how could she not, after their shared look and entwined fingers during the wedding ceremony held so much love and promise for a future Scylla hadn’t dared dream about until that moment) but hearing the words,  _ feeling _ them, was an entirely different experience.

Then they were dragging Raelle away and Scylla’s scream filled her cell, reverberating into the cracked depths of her chest, splitting her wide open.

She barely felt Anacostia’s hands on her shoulders. Didn’t, couldn’t fight her prying into Scylla’s deepest, most shameful memories.

The pain from that was too much, then. But it paled in comparison to the news that she would be shipped off to a Caribbean prison to die. It terrified her.

Her parents were right: one way or another, the military was going to be the death of her.

But she couldn’t go quietly. She had to see Raelle one last time.

Anacostia entered her cell with food instead of words.

“Am I going to be executed?”

“Calm down,” she said, her tone leaving no room for arguments.

She walked out, and Raelle walked in. This time there was no love in her eyes. No tears to be shed, no belief in promises of the future. Scylla was afraid of this, had dreaded this moment from the time she realized she failed her mission and fallen in love.

Having Raelle taken away from her physically was a gut punch that knocked the wind right out of her.

Having Raelle taken away from her mentally and emotionally was a knife through her chest.

After Raelle left, Scylla did her best to make peace with the fact that that was the last time she’d ever see her.  _ What did you expect? _ She asked herself.  _ Did you think they’d pity you for the fact they killed your parents? That they would just let you go? _

Then Anacostia let her go.

Once she was off base she headed to the only place she knew she’d be welcome: the Spree safe house. She would lie low for a while and think of what to do next. Of course, the cell’s leader being Willa Collar really threw a wrench in that plan.

Their arguments could clear the others out of the house faster than if it were on fire.

That all changed when news of the Tarim mission reached them. They were devastated.

If their loving Raelle had been rocky common ground, losing Raelle cleared it out clean.

But the deeper the sorrow, the higher the joy.

The weird phenomenon that happened (a witch bomb, they were calling it) brought Raelle and Abigail back.

Hope is a dangerous four-letter word.

That’s what she kept telling herself. There was no need for her to get her hopes up; there was no way Alder would let them off base, and it was far too dangerous for her to even think about sneaking back on base to see her.

Which was why she now stood in her room in the safe house staring at herself in the mirror, gathering up her courage to remember the good times. She took a deep breath and said the words.

This work was the one-way version: she could look in on her old room, but whoever was on the other side wouldn’t see a thing.  _ If _ there was anyone on the other side. They wouldn’t have given someone else her room already, would they? Not that it really mattered, now.

Her old room looked exactly as it had when she moved into it. Neat and tidy, without a speck of dust in sight. The bed unmade and closet empty. Even her necro flag had been taken down.

Scylla wondered if she’d ever get the chance to reclaim her things. The thought of stopping on her way off base crossed her mind, but was quickly deemed far too risky. According to Raelle everyone thought she was dead. It would’ve raised suspicions if Anacostia went snooping around in there.

Staring at the bed, her mind drifted back to all the nights Raelle had laid in the spot next to her. All those passionate moments followed by tender tranquility. She knew even then that those nights would be short lived. Deep down she wished their lives were their own, with the freedom to choose each other, over and over. She thought handing Raelle over would be simple, if not easy; turns out it was the other way around.

Choosing Raelle was easy. There was no denying the love in her heart beating fiercely along with it, an echo matching the rhythm beat for beat.

The consequences had been anything but simple.

In saving Raelle she lost Raelle.

This was no subtle irony.

It was pure pain.

So when Anacostia told her she had a one-way ticket to the Caribbean there was no point in fighting. Especially after their last encounter.

_ I loved you. _

Past tense.

Her own was still present. Would always be present.

But if she had to die so Raelle could live then so be it.

And just when she had made peace with dying the weight of her chains lifted. She could breathe again.

Freedom with nowhere to go.

“Hold onto the part of you that’s good.”

The part Raelle saw. The part Raelle loved. If she had anything worth holding onto, it was that.

So she went to the only place she could start again. She had done it before, after her parents were gone.

Only this time the world tilted dangerously beneath her feet once, twice, three times in rapid fire succession.

Once: Willa Collar was alive, and Spree.

Twice: the earth-shattering knowledge that Raelle was dead.

It should have been her. She laid awake every night thinking that, over and over.  _ It should have been me _ . A small part of her blamed Anacostia for shifting the cosmic scales in her favor; if she went to prison, would Raelle still be alive?

(A false equivalency at best; Raelle would’ve been on the mission regardless.)

Part of her blamed herself. Raelle’s deathwish subsided because of her, because of their love. Without it… Did she go on that mission wanting to die? Planning on it?

Was it all Scylla’s fault?

The cruel irony that she had been the one so close to death, and Raelle beat her to it. Except…

Three times: Raelle Collar was alive.

Which meant that one day they could–

Scylla stopped herself. The word  _ loved _ echoed in her brain and her mouth went dry.

Her old room sat empty and waiting just like her heart.

The door opened, swinging towards the mirror. Whoever opened it paused. Scylla frowned, unsure if she wanted to see the person invading what used to be her space.

Raelle took a tentative step forward, hand still on the doorknob. She looked around the room, her face neutral as she took it in. She swallowed, glanced out into the hallway, and shut the door quietly. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply as if trying to catch any lingering scent leftover from Scylla.

Scylla took in her own shaky breath, letting it loose slowly.

Raelle looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tired. Pale and bone-weary exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes made Scylla wonder if she was sick.

Scylla locked eyes with her, heart hammering against her ribcage. Raelle blinked slowly and shook her head, seeing only herself in the mirror. She turned and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge. Each move was slow and tender, like she might fracture herself if she made a wrong move. Leaning back on her hands, she just sat there gazing around the room. Scylla watched her eyes take in the empty closet, the cleared-off desk. The bare wall where her necro flag once hung.

Minutes went by. Scylla couldn’t look away.

It was a miracle. Raelle, alive. Raelle, in her old room.

But why?

Raelle sat up, reaching into the pouch on her leg and pulling something out.

Scylla’s breath hitched.

Her combat charm.

Raelle sniffed, blinking rapidly.  _ Blinking back tears _ , Scylla realized. Raelle was crying. She held the bird skull gingerly, as if it were as fragile as she was.

“You were supposed to keep her safe,” she said, voice breaking. “Now I’ll never see her again.”

Scylla’s eyes prickled with heat, tears welling up unbidden while Raelle continued.

“I know she lied. A lot,” Raelle swallowed. “But Anacostia said her love was real.  _ Our love _ was real. And now… what am I supposed to do? God, despite it all I still love her. Just the thought of…” She wiped her tears away with the back of her wrist. “She’s probably scared, and alone, and God only knows what they’re doing to her.”

Scylla’s body shook with quiet sobs, the hand covering her quivering lips getting wet from the tears cascading down her cheeks.

_ Raelle still loves me. _

She felt that four-letter word rise up in her chest and fall into the cracks there, slowly piling up until the whole of her ribcage was full of it.

“I fucked up,” she told the charm. “I told her I don’t love her anymore. That I didn’t care if she shipped off to die. I do care, and it hurts  _ so fucking much _ , worse than actually getting stabbed in the heart and dying.”

_ Oh Goddess, is that what happened? _

“I’d give anything,  _ anything _ , to see her again. God, I miss you so much, Scyl.”

Scylla’s right hand hovered over her left, pointer finger just above the palm.

_ Do it? _

_ Don’t do it? _

“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Her eyes stayed on Raelle as her finger drew the S on her hand.

Raelle flinched, startled, then looked at her left hand. A fresh wave of tears overtook both of them, relief and sadness settling over Raelle’s features.

“How did you know, Scyl?” Raelle smiled through the tears.

The bells rang across campus.

“Shit, I’m gonna be late.”

She stood up, gently placing the charm back into her pouch. On her way to the door she paused to look at the mirror one more time. Scylla watched her, eyes roving over Raelle’s face, committing every feature to memory again. She had no idea when the next time she’d see her would be. Raelle looked at her without looking at her, hand on the doorknob.

“If you can hear this...come back to me, Scyl. Please. I’m sorry.”

After one final smile, she wiped her face clear and was out the door. It clicked shut behind her, a sound with finality.

Scylla wiped her own tears away and closed down the mirror work.

Raelle still loved her, still wanted to see her. Wanted her back. She thought she owed Scylla an apology when they all really belonged to her. It was the prelude to a start; all Scylla had to do was figure out how to set things in motion.

“That really wasn’t why I sent you in there to get her,” Willa’s voice sounded in her doorway.

Scylla turned, face hardening into something coldly neutral.  _ How long had she been there watching? _

“Yeah, well, pretty much all of this could’ve been avoided if you were, I don’t know, up front about everything from the start?”

“I’ve told you, the less you knew the better, and safer, you both were.”

“I almost went away to prison for life. Raelle actually  _ died _ .”

“I know,” Willa said. This was at least the twelfth time they’d had this discussion. “I have another mission for you. One that could help.”

“You’ve done such a good job with that before,” she said, the words carrying a little less venom than she’d intended.

Willa sighed. “The Camarilla are back.”

“Well aware.”

“Our agents at Fort Salem seem to think Alder might be more willing to consider alternative methods in order to fight them.”

Scylla raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “Alternative methods? Like what?”

“The Camarilla are a threat to all witches, army and Spree alike. We’ll be negotiating a ceasefire, and will join forces for the time being.”

She frowned. “The Spree and the army, joining forces?”

“Yes, Scylla,” Willa said, stepping closer to her. “You’re going back to Fort Salem.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raelle isn't handling things very well.

There was nothing in the world Raelle wanted more than a damn nap.

Everything that happened to her from the witch bomb going off until now was a blur. She could remember every detail and moment, and none. The memory of dying flowed like a steady current beneath the tumultuous waves of their recovery and return to Fort Salem, to the battery of tests and nonstop questions she and Abigail were subjected to, to the not-subtle-at-all stares and whispers and gossip around base.

Running deeper under all that noise were memories of Scylla. Good, bad, and heartbreaking. She tried to focus on the good times, how it felt to fall asleep and wake up next to her, to hold her hand, to kiss her. Most of all she held the memory from the wedding close to her heart, mentally replaying Scylla’s, “ _No matter what happens, I love you”_ over and over.

She believed those words, then.

Now Raelle was far too tired to combat them back into submission, powerless to stop the bad and the heartbreaking from rushing in to chase the good away.

_What happened between your being wounded_ (they were always too afraid to say _stabbed_ ) _and the witch bomb detonation?_

_Do you think you can do it again?_

_Did it happen because Abigail linked with you?_

_Does it have to happen with Abigail to reproduce it?_

_Can it work with someone else?_

_What did it feel like?_

_They’re analyzing mushroom samples from the site. What can you tell us about those?_

_Can someone else become a witch bomb?_

_Do you have to die every time?_

_We want to recreate it. How can we recreate it?_

Around and around, over and over. Question after question, always circling back to the fact that she could be weaponized. _Should_ be weaponized.

She wanted time to rest and process it all. Needed it, actually.

They were barraged for a week straight, only granted the freedom to eat, sleep, and stretch their legs every once in a while. Alder made it perfectly clear to everyone involved that there were two priorities right now: researching the witch bomb, and handling the Camarilla.

The name barely registered as a blip on her mental radar the first time she heard it. She thought she remembered Scylla mentioning them, once. Or maybe it was Abigail, or Anacostia? Her head throbbed from even this little exertion.

They were supposed to be briefed on them that afternoon. She would have to sit in a classroom and be quiet while she had a history lesson on the people who killed her.

She wished Scylla was still here. Then, when the bad and the heartbreaking surged upward to remind her, she didn’t.

The sun had just risen and Raelle was so confused.

She had barely had enough time to herself to shower and sleep, let alone parse through the deep pit of emotions pooled inside of her.

_No matter what happens, I love you._

_I love you, Raelle. I would never do anything to hurt you._

(At least part of that was a lie.)

_I still love you._

Then:

_She loves you. That part’s real._

Does she still believe it now?

This was the first time in nearly a week and a half that she and Abigail were allowed to relax and do whatever they wanted before the briefing. Looking across the room, she realized Abigail had already gotten up and left, likely off to find Adil and the other Tarim.

The emptiness of their room felt off. Shifted, in the absence of Tally’s things, relocated to the Biddy’s living quarters. Base historians were poring over the texts that were gifted to Alder over a century ago, the ones that detailed the work needed to prolong her life. Once other biddies were selected, they were hoping to let Tally regain her youth. If that were even possible; Alder herself admitted it might not be.

She couldn’t stay in their room any longer, not without Abigail there, too. Her stomach growled loud and angry. Mess hall it was.

After an unsatisfying breakfast topped with whispers and stares Raelle found herself wandering aimlessly around base. It helped clear her mind to focus on the motion: step by step, breath by breath. Over grass and pavement, across lawns, up and down hills, trying to work the stiffness from prolonged sitting out of her joints. Her chest still hurt where the small pink one-inch line marked the spot, aching despite the healing effects of the witch bomb.

That’s what they were calling it. A witch bomb. Raelle scoffed the first time she’d heard it. Yes, it technically was an explosion with witches at its epicenter, but surely they could’ve called it something cooler.

If she had to die to set it off, she should’ve been the one to name it, at least.

The Medea barracks loomed over her in the cheery late-morning sunshine. Of all the buildings on base, her body brought itself to this one. She’d come here so many times before that the path was ingrained in her muscle and bone. Moving on their own accord, her legs took her inside and up the stairs. By the time she reached Scylla’s old floor she was more winded than she cared to admit. Her apprehension rose as she drew closer to Scylla’s room; she had no idea what to expect. After the Bellweather wedding she’d avoided coming back because the pain had been too much, too raw.

Standing in front of Scylla’s door, Raelle paused. The deep pool of emotions swirled, raging like a whirlpool inside her. Time to dip a toe in to test the waters.

She opened the door.

The layout was the same but it lacked all of its former warmth and charm. She stepped inside, double-checking that no prying eyes were watching before shutting the door. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, searching for any remaining hint that Scylla was real, had been here. Leftover lavender, very faint, but there.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Tired eyes stared back; she looked as good as she felt, which was awful. Shaking her head to clear it only made it worse.

Raelle moved to the bare bed and sat on its edge.

A wave of _something_ washed over her as she took it in.

Her closet had never been full of clothes but seeing it standing empty made it feel so lonely. The cork boards held no notes with delicate handwriting, the desks were barren of books. Even the wall behind her looked naked without Scylla’s necro flag hanging on it.

Scylla was everywhere and nowhere at once in this room. Hell, if she didn’t know any better she’d think Scylla was in there right now with her; that’s how strong her presence filled the empty space.

The tears came unbidden, surprising her. Suddenly the tiny weight in her pouch felt immense; she gently pulled Scylla’s combat charm out of its hiding place. All the time she spent working on it, researching how to make the charm, what materials to use, not to mention the time it took to find the bird skull and plants, and none of it worked.

_None of it worked_.

“You were supposed to keep her safe,” she sniffed, letting the tears come.

It felt stupid, talking to the bird charm, but she had to let it all out. Whatever _it all_ was.

So she talked. The words frightened her with their honesty as they flowed out of her mouth.

“I fucked up,” she admitted, something akin to relief swelling as she did. To say it out loud, even to herself and a dead bird and an empty room, how much losing Scylla hurt, felt like ripping the band-aid off a still-bleeding cut.

She had to say exactly how she felt, even if it was too late:

“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Then, from wherever in the world she was, Scylla let her know she was thinking about her, too.

Raelle laughed through the tears, her joy and sorrow mixing like muddied water.

“How did you know, Scyl?”

The base bell rang noon. The briefing was starting without her.

She put Scylla’s charm back in its place and got up to leave. With a hand on the doorknob she allowed herself one last long look around the room, landing on her reflection in the mirror. For some reason Scylla’s presence was palpable, now more than ever.

“If you can hear this...come back to me, Scyl. Please. I’m sorry.”

Sorry for what happened between them. Sorry for what she said, and more sorry for what she didn’t. But most of all she was sorry that the improbable future she once saw with Scylla was impossible now, burnt to ash and smoke in the conflagration of their love.

For what could have been, and now will never be.

Raelle shoved those thoughts down as she hurried down the stairs and out of Medea barracks. She needed to focus.

The Camarilla had killed her once. She wasn’t going to let them do it again.

Abigail was already there, seated towards the back of the small briefing room. Raelle slid into the open spot next to her, ignoring Abigail’s curious yet worried glance. There were fewer people in the room than she expected; most were the other survivors from the rescue mission, and the rest were officers she didn’t really recognize.

“Here’s what we know so far,” the intelligence officer said. “The Camarilla are an ancient group of witch hunters. While their exact origins remain unknown, we know they began operating in the seventeenth century…”

“Did I miss anything good?” Raelle asked in a whisper, leaning into Abigail’s side.

“Unless you count ‘rah-rah let’s go get ‘em’ speeches and introductions, no,” Abigail whispered back, “you didn’t.”

Raelle nodded, shifting back in her seat.

“Their preferred methods of execution were hanging and burning witches at the stake. If a body was left they would cut out her vocal cords in an effort to symbolically remove her voice and her power. We have this artifact recovered from a raid performed over one hundred and fifty years ago. The vocal cords removed from their victims were preserved and recorded as medical specimens…”

Sergeant Izadora opened up an old chest as the intel officer spoke; inside were what looked like freeze-dried fruits all shriveled up in neatly spaced boxes. Identification cards numbered them off.

“Gross,” Raelle muttered.

“Evidence suggests that the attacks on the Tarim, as well as on the removed Bellweather descendants and others around the globe, that the Camarilla have been slowly resurging in the past twenty years…”

Abigail tensed, hands balling into fists at the mention of her family. Even months after the horror at her cousin’s wedding she was still having nightmares at least once a week. Raelle placed her hand on top of Abigail’s fist and squeezed gently. She looked at Raelle, mouth set in a tense line and hard anger around her eyes. Raelle met her stare and nodded. Abigail would avenge Charvel, and Raelle would do anything and everything to help her do it.

“The Camarilla have been evolving in the shadows. They now possess a dangerous technology, one that takes our power, our voices, and bastardizes them for their own use. We recovered several voice boxes that they used in the Altai mountains…”

Raelle froze.

_Surrounded by hostiles. Fear. Rough, foreign sounding Ménìshè out of stolen power. Their pilots’ screams as the flames began to devour them, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. Horror, as a dust storm closed in around them, swirling and obscuring everything._

_The race to the bats as the first of the Camarilla came._

_Then another, and another, and they were surrounded._

_Screams and singing and storms and blood filled the air._

_Scourges whipped around wildly._

_Two biddies down, and Alder with them._

_Tally‒_

_Did what she had to._

_The retreat onto the bats._

_The Tarim boy running‒_

_Her combat charm._

_A blade through her chest._

Raelle stood up abruptly and left.

Her heart and mind were racing, chest heaving because she suddenly couldn’t pull enough air into her lungs.

She thought she was going to explode.

Right finger to left palm. S.

_S, S, S._

Scylla. Safety. Salvation.

Everything was overwhelming.

_Save me_.

She couldn’t save Scylla.

She ran.

She ran and ran until the panic died in her chest, exhaustion finally taking over to collapse her under a tree. A massive oak, the same one she and Scylla had been drawn to the whole time they were together.

_Our spot_ , she thought as she leaned her head back to look up at the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.

Abigail found her there, sweaty and worn out among the roots. She sat down to keep vigil next to her. She looked at Raelle and thought of Tally.

Her unit had seen so much change and loss and grief in so little time.

*~*~*~*

General Alder stood straight-backed as she looked at the mirror in her private quarters, a slight frown on her otherwise neutral face.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

**WE NEED EACH OTHER, SARAH,** the blue balloon said, fogging the glass. **WE ARE THE SAME TO THEM.**

**IT IS IN OUR BEST INTEREST, AS WELL AS YOURS.**

“I am the commander of the United States military. What use do I have for cowards who hide behind balloons?”

**AGREE TO OUR CEASEFIRE PROPOSAL AND WE WILL MEET.**

**IN PERSON.**

“Why should I risk that?”

**WE HAVE BEEN MONITORING THEM.**

**WE HAVE INTELLIGENCE THAT WILL TAKE YOU MONTHS TO GATHER ON YOUR OWN.**

**BY THEN IT WILL BE TOO LATE.**

**WE HAVE A COMMON GOAL, A COMMON ENEMY.**

**WAR IS COMING.**

**WE NEED A UNITED FRONT, IF WITCHES ARE TO SURVIVE.**

She was quiet, considering the words with a clenched jaw. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other, hands clasped behind her back.

“What are your terms?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alder and the Spree come to an agreement, of sorts.

Scylla did not like this situation at all.

Being at Fort Salem was anxiety-inducing enough as an undercover Spree agent. Returning to the fort after escaping imprisonment there, this time openly as a Spree agent, was giving her mild heart palpitations.

She just hoped that Alder would realize she had bigger concerns than an AWOL necro cadet. Finding out that one of the army’s finest fixers was not only alive but had faked her own death to join a terrorist organization would surely be more important. Right?

Especially since said fixer was the only Spree in the room not wearing any glamour.

An owl hooted outside the window. It was two a.m. now. They’d been put in this room over an hour ago when they came on base under the cover of night. Willa said this was part of her agreement with Alder; the general wanted to keep their presence on base as quiet as possible.

Scylla’s leg bounced against her chair. The fingers on her left hand shifted around each other, a nervous habit she’d always had. From the time Willa announced to the house that Alder agreed to meet with them on base until they were in the unmarked white van crossing through the guard station she hadn’t known how to feel. So much depended on how this meeting went.

Willa was the only one who didn’t seem nervous. She leaned against Alder’s desk with her arms crossed over her chest as she gazed about the room. Everyone else loitered around, some inspecting the military history Alder had curated. Others fidgeted like Scylla.

Scylla tried to focus. Wanted to. But the fact that Raelle was so close, and missed her, and still loved her, and wanted to see her…

Willa cleared her throat. She was looking at Scylla, a small smile on her lips. Scylla frowned back at her, the old anger rising to the surface.

Who would Raelle be more elated to see again? More devastated?

When two ghosts reappear before you, how do you react?

Scylla didn’t know what to expect. If she  _ could _ expect to see her again.

The door opened. General Sarah Alder walked in, alone.

“Willa Collar. This is a surprise.” If it was, her face didn’t betray it.

“Sarah Alder. It’s been too long.” The general’s jaw clenched just a fraction at the slight. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

“I must admit I was surprised when you reached out to me,” she said as she moved to sit behind her desk. Scylla noted that she never turned her back on any of the Spree scattered throughout the room. Alder leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled as she considered Willa. “Give me one good reason right now why I shouldn’t throw you in jail for desertion and defection.”

Scylla and the others tensed, certain that soldiers were about to burst through the door and arrest them all. Willa chuckled, sitting in the plush leather chair across from Adler.

“Because I am the best shot you have at defeating the Camarilla before they can really get started.”

“You seem so certain about that.”

“Because it’s true,” Willa shrugged. “I’ve talked with other Spree leaders. They’re willing to stop their own attacks for the time being so they can fly low under the radar. None of them were willing to even think about working with you. Said it would be too dangerous.”

“I see.”

“We can help each other, Sarah. You have the numbers, we have the necessary work.”

“Your work isn’t canon,” Alder scoffed.

“Precisely,” Willa said, leaning forward. “They’ll be expecting storm and fury, they won’t be expecting us to be hidden among them.”

“You speak as if you’ve already done it.”

“We have,” Willa grinned. “And we learned some very interesting pieces of information during the process which I’m sure Petra would love to get her hands on. How is the great General Bellweather? I haven’t seen her in over a year.”

Alder frowned. “What kind of information? How did you get it, and can it be trusted?”

“I told you, we’ve had our eyes on them for some time. Those bastards are easier to find than you’d think, if you know what to look for. All of our intel comes straight from their own mouths.”

“You’ve infiltrated the Camarilla?” Alder sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. Begrudging respect crept into her voice as she asked, “How?”

“It’s not going to be that easy, Sarah.” Willa leaned back in her seat, mirroring her. “If we’re going to work together we need to be able to trust each other.”

“Of course,” Alder smiled, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “What will that take, for you?”

“We want to keep one of our own on base. Someone who can be used by both sides, someone who can blend in seamlessly wherever they go.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Alder appraised each of the Spree around the room in turn.

“Yes,” Willa said. “Scylla Ramshorn.”

*~*~*~*

Another day, another briefing on the Camarilla.

Raelle hoped she’d be able to sit this one through.

She was tired. Heart and mind and soul down to the bone exhausted. For the past two nights Abigail had been sleep inducing her with the hope that she’d be able to get some actual rest. Physically, it worked; her aches and pains were mostly gone. Her head and heart were both still messes of tangled emotional threads pulled tight into razor-edge lines. Every time she tried to untangle them she just cut herself deeper.

So she decided to leave the threads alone, hoping that time would dull their sharpness.

Raelle was glad Abigail didn’t ask about the other day. She didn’t need to. Raelle had seen the same panicked look on her face, knew the contents of Abigail’s nightmares.

Some things were better left unsaid.

They walked into the briefing room together. Everyone else was already there. It was quiet; the officers all stood with their backs a little straighter, and the rest were less fidgety than normal. Abigail and Raelle sat in their seats, sharing a confused glance.

Moments later Alder strode into the room and went directly to the front, her biddies trailing behind and fanning out on either side of her, Tally at the very end. When she saw her unit she gave them a sad little wave. Someone shut the door to the room. The light from the projector cast a pale blue shine on Alder as she spoke.

“No one, and I mean absolutely no one, outside of this room is to know what I am about to say. Am I understood?”

Boots pounded the ground. She held up a hand to silence them.

“Good.” Alder paused, looking around the room. “I have had to make many difficult decisions as the commander of the United States military. Eradicating the Camarilla was one of the easiest choices I had to make, almost to the point that it wasn’t even a choice. But after a century of hiding in the shadows, evolving and growing stronger while we’ve had our guard down, they have returned more ruthless than ever.

“Up until now our mission has been defeating the Spree. Our resources are already spread thinner than I want them to be; fighting a war with two fronts right now could prove to be disastrous. Which is why I have agreed to cooperate and join forces with the Spree.”

Surprised murmurs broke out in the room. Raelle scoffed.

_ Now she’s willing to work with the Spree. What a cruel fucking joke, universe. _

Alder held her hand up for silence again.

“Like the Spree, the Camarilla function in anonymity. They are an unseen enemy, hiding everywhere and nowhere, in plain sight. They are civilians. Non-witches. We would be committing war crimes by taking them out without acknowledging them, but to acknowledge them would be to give them legitimacy and the platform that comes along with it. Luckily, the Spree operate under the same principles. We will fight fire with fire, using the Spree and their ability to act and gather information covertly as an advantage. When the time comes we will finish them with storm and fury that hasn’t been seen for centuries.”

Boots thundered on the ground, filling the room with hard determination. Even the biddies stomped along, Tally especially.

“Be aware that, as part of our agreement, there will be a Spree operative on base. If you are chosen for a mission you must work together. Insubordination of any kind will not be tolerated. The Camarilla seek to wipe every single witch off of the face of the earth. We must put our differences aside for now if we are to survive the coming war.” Alder’s hard gaze swept over the room as she let her words sink in. “Dismissed.”

“A Spree agent on base, huh?” Abigail said as they walked out of the command building. “Who do you think it could be?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Raelle sniffed. “We probably won’t ever meet them, anyway.”

“Collar!” Anacostia called from the steps of the next building down. “A word, please.”

Raelle looked at Abigail, who shrugged. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

The drill sergeant seemed agitated as she walked over, eyes looking everywhere except at Raelle.

“Ma’am?”

“I need you to come with me.”

“Am I in trouble?” Raelle asked as she followed Anacostia inside and up the stairs to the second floor.

“Not exactly,” she replied, “but I can’t say the same for who you’re about to see.”

“Ma’am?”

Anacostia stopped in front of a closed door, turning to place a hand on each of her shoulders. Looking Raelle in the eyes, she took a deep breath and said, “Look. I have no idea what’s going to happen on the other side of this door, but I don’t think you’re gonna like it. If you need to blow off steam when you’re done in there I want you to come and find me. Okay? I’ll have the rough room set up for you.”

“I‒” Raelle frowned, her stomach sinking like a lead weight. “Um. Sure.”

Anacostia squeezed her shoulders once and then Raelle was alone, staring at the heavy oak door that separated her from… whatever was on the other side.

She put her ear against the door and listened. All she heard was the sound of her own blood rushing through her. Should she knock? She should. But who could possibly be waiting for her?

Raelle took a deep breath and knocked.

No response.

She tried the handle. It was unlocked. She opened the door.

The first thing she saw was Scylla turning towards her, blue eyes wide with uncertainty and...fear?

"Raelle."

Raelle’s mouth went dry, her stomach doing somersaults against her heart and lungs. She took a step into the room as if drawn in by a magnet.

“What are you‒”

Another figure came into view, cutting into her line of sight like a train slamming into her.

“Mom‒?”

“Hello, Raelle.” Willa smiled.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she looked at her mother. Alive, and in front of her.

Then at Scylla. Alive, and in front of her.

Willa’s smile, Scylla’s fear.

_ A Spree operative on base _ .

Something hardened inside of her. A deep, angry, noiseless roar started low and rose, churning like lava ready to burst from the top of a volcano.

Willa was confused by the sudden change, but she’d seen that look on Scylla’s face before. Painfully sad resignation. Down in the dungeon where they’d kept her chained like an animal, when Raelle thought she’d never see her again and lied to herself that she was glad for it. Lied to Scylla, like Scylla had lied to her.

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

But if Scylla was here as Spree, and her mom was here as Spree‒

“Somebody had better start fucking talking before I lose my goddamn mind.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raelle confronts Willa, and then Scylla

Raelle paced around the room like a caged tiger, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her body shook with barely-contained rage, chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to maintain some semblance of control.

“You’ve been alive this  _ whole fucking time _ and didn’t  _ once _ try to contact me. Not once.”

“Raelle‒”

“What about dad? Does he know? Were you okay with him thinking you were really gone, too? Or is he a liar like you two are?”

“That’s not fair‒”

“Answer the question,  _ mom _ .”

Willa sighed. “No. Your father doesn’t know.”

Raelle stopped pacing, her voice breaking as she asked, “Do you have any idea how devastated we were?”

“I did it to protect you.”

“Bullshit!”

“Raelle,” Scylla cut in, her voice an island of calm breaking through the storm swirling inside of Raelle, cutting through to the center of her. She looked at Scylla for the first time since she walked into the room.

Being this close to Scylla again felt like both her wildest dream and darkest nightmare. The urge to grab her and never let her go rivaled the one telling her to stay as far away from the brunette as possible. When Scylla moved towards her she swallowed, hands hesitating halfway up to touch her shoulders. Whatever she saw in Raelle’s face gave her the courage to complete the motion, hands resting solidly on the blonde.

Raelle took a deep breath. It felt like she hadn’t filled her lungs in so long, like she’d been holding her breath this whole time. Like she’d still be holding it in if this wasn’t happening, and would be until the day she truly died.

She looked at Scylla, watched her eyes replace fear with genuine concern. Scylla looked unflinchingly back at her. It amazed Raelle how quickly and thoroughly Scylla could calm her down, even now.

“Hey. I think this is a conversation you two need to have alone. I’ll be nearby if you want to talk, okay? You’ll know where to find me.”

Raelle nodded, not trusting her voice.

At least one of them could recognize that they fucked up and needed to give her space.

Scylla gave her another sad, small smile before turning to leave. Raelle watched her go, felt the anger and panic and relief swell up at the sight. She wanted desperately for Scylla to stay, and was equally desperate to be away from her.

She’d just gotten Scylla back; could she bear to lose her again, if only for a little while?

Willa cleared her throat, the sound jarring Raelle back into the room.

“Lie to me again,” she said, whirling on her mother. “From the top. What was your endgame in all of this?”

“I told you, everything I have done was to protect you and your father.”

“Still sounds like an awful lot of bullshit to me.”

“Will you let me explain?” Willa asked, voice sharp. Raelle gestured for her to continue.

“There have been rumors circulating about the Camarilla for over a decade. Everywhere I was deployed I heard snippets here and there. About three years ago, the unit I was deployed with, we were separated from everyone else on a mission and had to make our way back to the closest base. When we stumbled upon a small camp of people out training in the desert we thought it was a local civilian militia. Then we heard them sing.

“It was unlike anything we’d ever heard. Seeds, but not like ours. They were different. Wrong. They had these‒”

“Black boxes around their throats?”

“Yes. We didn’t stick around for very long, but I know now for certain that it was the Camarilla. After rendezvousing with our battalion we went up the chain of command to report it, all the way up to General Bellweather.” Willa scoffed. “Fat lot of good that did us. She said it was impossible, that they had been eradicated over a century ago and were never coming back. Our orders were to fight the enemies before us, not the ghosts from the past.

“I couldn’t get the sound of their seeds out of my head. I think they were just starting to use those voice boxes because their work wasn’t powerful at all.”

“Yeah, well, they’ve got the hang of them now.”

Willa looked at her with a mix of concern and pity. Raelle wanted to throw her out the window for it.

“From then on I kept one ear to the ground. Rumors became reports from my informants. Even with mounting evidence piled before her Petra refused to believe me. I knew I had to find a way out so I could actually  _ do something _ .”

“And you thought faking your death to join the fucking  _ Spree _ was the best way to do it?”

“Raelle, you need to understand‒”

Anger flared hot and heavy inside of her like a wildfire. “I understand that you lied to me. You lied to dad. You let us think you were dead! Do you know how awful the past year and a half have been? I was still mourning you up until fifteen minutes ago.”

“It wasn’t easy for me either,” Willa said quietly. “I missed you both more than words can say.”

“Yeah, well, at least you had a choice in the matter. We didn’t.”

“Raelle‒”

“You need to tell dad you’re alive.”

Willa shook her head. “It’s still too dangerous for him to know.”

The fire inside turned blue, intense and cold in its ferocity. “What’s the worst that could happen? Are you afraid Alder will torture him in a dungeon for information? I’ve already had that happen to someone I love. What’s another one? Maybe you should get a taste of it and see how it feels.”

She relished the shock on Willa’s face as her words sliced skin. The urge to hurt her mother the same way she’d been hurting for so long was too great to ignore.

“They used me to torture her. Do you have any idea what that feels like? I heard her _screaming_ for me when they dragged me away. I thought I’d never see her again, just like I did with you. Anacostia told me they were going to ship her off to die in prison. Because she was Spree. Because you sent her here knowing‒”

Raelle broke off, too enraged to continue.

Willa stepped towards her with one hand reaching out to touch her. Raelle jumped back in response.

“No. You don’t get to touch me now. You lost that privilege on a beach in Liberia.” She headed towards the door. “I’m leaving. Go back to your precious Spree, if they mean more to you than your own family.”

Her anger pushed her forward, down and out of the building into the late afternoon sunshine. Pain throbbed behind her forehead; there was too much going on in there for her to think clearly. Right now she needed to  _ not _ think. Needed to punish her body so her mind could reset after all the punishment it had been through.

Shift the blame to shift the pain.

She headed towards the rough room. The fastest way there was through the base gardens. She could feel her presence before she saw the tree. Their tree, with Scylla standing beneath it anxiously playing with her hands as she looked around.

Scylla visibly relaxed when she saw Raelle approaching, only to tense again when she saw the look on her face. She schooled her own into a neutral position, the only betrayal of her nerves lurking in the depths of her ocean blue eyes.

“I’d ask you how it went, but I think I can guess.”

“It was a shit show, yeah.” Raelle stopped a few feet short of her, arms crossing over her chest. “Did you know?”

“That she was your mother? No,” Scylla said, shaking her head. “I only found out a month ago.”

Raelle pursed her lips, mentally calculating the timeline. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I want to believe you, because then that means she lied to you, too. I just…” she trailed off, hands lowering to her sides where they flexed in and out of fists. Scylla took a hopeful step forward. Raelle flinched, her whole body tensing.

“Raelle…”

“I‒I have to go. I shouldn’t have‒ I can’t do this right now.” She turned abruptly and broke into a jog. She had to get to the rough room. Had to not think‒

“I’m shipping out tonight.”

Raelle stumbled, tripping over her own feet. She stopped and turned to face Scylla.

“What?”

“There’s not much I can say right now, but I’ll be gone for a few days. If… when I come back we need to talk.”

“That’s an understatement.” Her flat tone masked the tide of panic surging up into her chest, threatening to wash everything else away.

With Scylla and her mom gone, she could focus on anything and everything else.

But with them gone, that’s all she’d be able to think about.

Raelle looked at Scylla. Scylla looked at Raelle.

Scylla opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and let out a shaky breath instead.

Raelle was as much a ghost to her as she was to Raelle. The space between them stretched out a thousand miles, a gaping black chasm of hurt and pain and misunderstandings. She stared at her chest, as if looking hard enough would let her see through the uniform and at the scar that surely laid over the fixer’s heart.

Life becomes death, becomes life again.

Raelle alive. Standing and breathing and  _ existing _ here, five steps and an arm’s length away. A precious miracle too good to be true.

_ If you can hear this...come back to me, Scyl. _

“I have,” she wanted to say. “I’m here. And you came back to me too, Rae.”

She swallowed a thick lump of emotion down.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” Raelle’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m...I’m glad you’re back, Scyl. I think. I don’t…” She swallowed, trailing off. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s okay,” Scylla said, voice wavering. “We can figure it out. Together. If you’d like.”

“Yeah... _ When _ you get back, we will.”

“When I get back,” Scylla nodded.

Raelle looked like she wanted to fall into her arms, and like she wanted to run the other way as fast as she could.

“I’m gonna…”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Raelle turned and walked away. Pausing, she looked back at Scylla over her shoulder.

“Be safe out there?”

“I will.”

She watched Raelle go, saw the stiffness in her movements as she pretended to be unaffected by Scylla’s presence, and her growing absence. She wanted to chase after her. To beg, to plead, on hands and knees if she had to, whatever it took to make Raelle stay. She stood rooted to the ground as solidly as the oak behind her. Their tree, the silent witness to the waxing and waning of their relationship.

It felt like she was losing (offering? sacrificing?) her heart to Raelle all over again.

*~*~*

Sweat dripped down Raelle’s forehead, slipping into her eyes. She blinked, scourge whipping through the air at wild speeds as dummy after dummy fell to pieces at the will of her wrath.

How long had she been in here? She didn’t know.

The sky outside was a heady mixture of navy and dusky purple, the very last of the sun’s rays losing their hold on the day. She’d missed dinner in the mess hall. Which was fine; she didn’t think her stomach would’ve willingly played host to any food anyway.

As the dust settled around her she took stock of herself. Covered in sweat and breathing heavy. Arms like jelly and weary legs. Heart still pumping, the blood rushing through her veins making her feel alive. Mind still a jumbled mess of thoughts making her wish she’d stayed dead in those mountains.

_ I did it to protect you. _

A recurring theme in her life lately.

It pissed her off to no end.

First Scylla. Then Tally. Even her own mother.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Tally had been easy to forgive. Sincerity goes a long way, especially from your sister.

Scylla…

Scylla was a work in progress.

Her mom?

She couldn’t even begin to think about forgiveness yet.

Raelle cleaned up the rough room before heading back to Circe to clean up herself. Abigail silently watched her gather some clean clothes, concern clear on her face.

She turned the water up as hot as she could bear it. The heat washed over her, soothing the aches beginning to form in her muscles. She willed her mind to empty, to let everything flow down the drain with the dirt and sweat and suds.

_ Protect you. _

_ Too dangerous. _

_ I chose you. _

**_Was any of it real?_ **

_ All of it. _

Scylla was already leaving on an assignment. If she didn’t come back…

The tears came first, followed by the body-wracking sobs. Her legs were suddenly too weak to support her. Slowly she sank down until her back pressed against cold shower tile, the temperature difference jarring enough that it amplified the pain inside.

The door to their shared bathroom opened. Raelle did nothing to quiet herself. Whoever walked in did their business and left without a word.

She’d cry herself out and then sleep. Figure out tomorrow when tomorrow dawned.

Abigail was waiting for her when she walked into the room.

“Come here, shit bird,” she said, patting the space next to her on her bed.

Raelle did, too numb from her shower to argue. She knew she still looked like shit.

“I don’t know what happened to you today.” Abigail wrapped her in her arms, putting Raelle’s head on her shoulder. “I do know that the whole floor heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth you just did.”

Raelle bit back a laugh, her first in days.

“Talk about it or don’t. I’m here regardless.”

“Thank you,” she said, more ( _ more? _ ) tears clouding her vision. Then, “Why does everyone think that lying is a form of protection?”

Abigail sighed and held her tighter. “I wish I knew, Rae. I wish I knew.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scylla and Anacostia infiltrate a Camarilla rally. The Unit gets a new third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for torture in this chapter. It happens after the large italic chunk of backflash, and ends at the *~*~* page breakup.

“You’re sure the intel is good?”

“We’ve come all this way and you’ve decided to get cold feet now?”

“Not cold feet. I just want to be sure we aren’t wasting our time.”

“It’s not too late to turn around and go home if you want to. You’ll miss the big announcement, though.”

“What big announcement?”

“Oh, Alder didn’t brief you on that?” Scylla smirked. “Why do you think we’re here? Because it’s the biggest anti-witch social event of the year?”

“If you don’t check your attitude, Ramshorn, my fist will do it for you,” Anacostia warned.

They were in the warehouse district of Boston, holed up across from an abandoned factory warehouse that was supposedly playing host to a Camarilla rally within the hour.

“I think you’ve been played. They gave you the wrong loca‒”

Two black suburbans pulled up in front of their target. Six men and a woman got out and headed inside before they drove away.

“You were saying?”

“Shut up.”

More and more people began to arrive as they watched; most on foot, some parking nearby. Scylla estimated around one hundred, give or take a few either way.

“Time to head down. You ready?”

“I am. Do you remember what to do?”

Anacostia flicked her lighter open and sparked the flame to life. She brought it up to her chin, letting the fire melt away the drill sergeant and replace her with a middle-aged woman, hair graying at the edges. In her civilian clothes she looked like a mother of three running errands, nothing like the soldier lying beneath.

“I think so.”

Scylla rolled her eyes and did the same. Her transformation left her with delicate features and strawberry blonde hair, borrowed from an older dodger she remembered from her childhood, when she and her parents were out on the west coast.

“Remember the plan?”

“Blend in, lie low, listen, and leave. No engaging anyone unless necessary and unavoidable.”

“All right, let’s go.”

They approached the warehouse, entering through the same nondescript black metal door all the others had passed through. It opened onto a small antechamber where a set of double doors stood guarded by two of the muscle men from the suburbans. Scylla’s nose wrinkled; the smell of pure  _ hate _ roiled off of them in waves.

“Password?” One asked, holding up a beefy hand to stop them.

“The only good witch is a dead witch,” Scylla said without missing a beat.

“Yeah, okay.” The two stepped aside, one pushing the door open for them. “Enjoy the announcement, it’s gonna be good.”

They passed through, onto what was once the main factory floor. Everyone else milled about, gathering around a small stage set up against one of the curtained walls. An upright table stood on one side, just like the one back in the necro lab. It was dim inside, with only half of the overhead lights on. A high-pitched whine keened just at the top of their hearing range. It ground against Scylla’s brain, setting her on edge.

“That’s new,” she whispered.

“What is?”

Scylla stopped, looking the older not-Anacostia in the eyes. “You will stop and get us ice cream on the way back to base.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Just like I thought,” Scylla said, alert eyes scanning the space. “There’s a neutralizer in here somewhere.”

“Hold on a second,” Anacostia said, “did you just try to compel me to buy you ice cream?”

“We have bigger concerns than that. I’ve never heard of them using a neutralizer at a rally before. Either they know or suspect we’re here, or‒”

The lights went dark, plunging the whole warehouse into darkness broken only by weak streetlight filtering through the windows. A bank of lights over the stage came on and two spotlights flared, making twin circles on the black curtains. Glancing up behind them, Scylla saw that they were positioned on a catwalk that lined the upper floor, overlooking it. She followed the lines of it around the space. A small black box sat on the iron grating directly above the upright table.

There was the neutralizer, then.

She looked to Anacostia, nodding at the box. The drill sergeant considered the setup, putting two and two together.

“Hello my brothers and sisters!” A man stepped out from behind the curtains with a flourish. He smiled big, his teeth too perfect and white to be natural. The people cheered. “Thank you for joining us this evening. We have some very exciting news to share tonight, followed by a nice demonstration.”

“Oh shit,” Scylla muttered. Though they were far enough back from the crowd that no one had really noticed them, she still whispered, “That’s actually him.”

“Who?”

“He calls himself Matthew Hopkins, after the witch hunter from the seventeenth century. He’s the leader of the Camarilla in the U.S.”

Anacostia’s mouth set in a grim line as he continued speaking.

“Before I bring out Nicola and our special guest for the evening, I have some good news. Our brothers and sisters in Russia have agreed to split costs with us, so we have been able to begin mass-production on our voice boxes. Very soon each and every one of you will be able to fight fire with fire, using those bitches’ own magic against them.

“The voice boxes are only half of the equation, however; you need a set of their unholy vocal cords as well. Luckily we have our very own Nicola Remy here to show us how to properly extract them. Please welcome her, and our very special guest for the evening, to the stage!”

Cheers and applause rose as a woman in a white lab coat walked onstage, followed by two men hauling a gagged woman in uniform between them. She was awake, roughed up and clearly terrified.

Her uniform signified her as military police.

Scylla’s blood ran cold. She remembered that face. At night it would haunt her in her sleep, the same moment replaying over and over again in grayed out sepia tones for the past three years.

_ It was a normal Thursday afternoon. _

_ Her parents were out running errands, and had only been gone for an hour or so. It was a hot Cession summer and the small house they were camped out in only had window A/C units. The house was quiet save for the low hum of them throughout the space as they cranked in cooler air. _

_ She was in her room, halfway through a glass of iced tea and the book on her lap, when she heard the car doors shutting outside. Setting her book down, she headed down the stairs to help unload the car. _

_ Someone knocked on the front door. _

_ Scylla paused, tilting her head as her eyes narrowed. Her parents always took their house keys. Always. On the very rare occasion they forgot, the secret knock they had went: knock, pause, knock twice, pause, knock. _

_ This didn’t feel right. There were too many shadows shifting on the porch, coming in through the opaque glass around the front door. _

_ Now they were pounding on it, insistent. _

_ She ran down the rest of the stairs as quietly as possible, ducking into the living room. Crouching at the window, she risked a peek outside through the gauzy blue curtains. _

_ Scylla froze. _

_ Military police. _

_ Military police, banging on their front door. _

_ Her parents weren’t home. They would be, soon. _

_ She had to warn them, but had no way to do it. _

_ Two SUVS in their driveway with the MP symbol blazoned on them. Maybe her mom and dad would see them and keep going, come back after the MP had realized the house was empty and left. They had prepared extensively for this, had a plan in place in case this happened. _

_ Step one, stay calm. _

_ Step two, seriously, stay calm. _

_ Step three, find a place to hide. Keep quiet, and stay calm. _

_ Step four, stay there until we come to get you. You’ll be safe, when we’re together. _

_ There was a tiny closet in the attached single-car garage. If she could get there and hide, it would be over before she knew it. Tiptoeing through the house, wincing at every creak in the floorboards, she made her way to the door leading to the garage. She eased it open just enough for her to slip out into the stiflingly close air. Light slanted in through three small window slots in the garage door. _

_ Scylla prayed to the Goddess that no one was looking in, that no one would know she was there. She was almost to the closet when she heard them. _

_ Two more car doors shutting, then her parents’ voices. _

No.

_ Were they surrendering? _

_ Why hadn’t they just kept driving? _

_ She could handle herself, could hide. They’d hidden before, outsmarted and ran and dodged the MP for this long. _

_ Why surrender now? _

_ If they caught her, she’d be forced to conscript, which wasn’t any great surprise. If she was anything like her mother she’d be placed in the necro division anyway, largely safe from harm. Was prison for her parents worth her being free, but alone? _

_ She went up to the garage door, heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thought they might shatter. _

_ Her parents, kneeling on the ground, hands on the backs of their heads. Three MP, two of which stood over them, knives glinting viciously in the sunlight. The third looked haughtily at them, standing behind the other two. _

_ Fire-red hair pulled back into a tight bun and a hardness to her face are what Scylla remembered the most. She was too far away to read the name tag but as she watched the woman give the order that brutally ended her parents’ lives, the image seared itself into her brain forever, the sound of her dream-scream echoing off into nothing. _

“Oh, shit,” Anacostia muttered. “This is bad.”

“Is it?” Cold venom laced her words.

“Constance Clearwater is the newly-appointed head of the MP in the Cession.”

“She’s the reason my parents are dead.”

Anacostia shot her a pained look. “Now is  _ not _ the time.”

A small table was wheeled onstage, an assortment of medical-grade instruments frighteningly sharp in the bright lights. Constance struggled as they tied her to the upright table, binding her ankles, wrists, and around her forehead. With the gag removed her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes wide and wild, chest heaving in terror.

“This one had a job that will come in very handy for us. Who here is familiar with dodgers?” A dozen hands went up in the air. “For those of you who aren’t, there are witches who try to blend in, try to look and act like us. Like normal people.” Some boos rang out. “I know. But this one was tasked with locating them, knowing the signs and habits of those witches hiding among us, the blood-stained wolves among us sheep. And she’s here tonight to share this information with us! Now,” Hopkins said, turning to address her, “is it true that dodgers are the only witches who won’t be missed by the military?”

“Fuck you.” She spat on his face.

“It is true,” he continued, unphased as he wiped his face clean with a handkerchief. “Dodgers are the safest witches to target when hunting for vocal cords. They’ve slipped through Alder’s hands and will land in ours with no one the wiser. So what should you look for? What are the tell-tale signs of a witch? Tell them.”

Constance glared with the full force of her hatred and said nothing.

“Very well, then. Nicola, the thumb screws, please.”

Nicola moved in front of Constance, fiddling with her hands. Scylla and Anacostia couldn’t see much from where they were standing. Constance grimaced in pain but remained silent.

“Twist until she bleeds, Nicola,” Hopkins ordered. “Witch blood is worthless.”

“We’ve got to get her out of here,” Anacostia whispered.

“Blend in, lie low, listen, leave. Saving my parents’ murderer wasn’t part of the plan.”

“It became part of the plan when they decided to torture one of our own for an audience with the end goal of stealing her vocal cords.” Scylla looked away, frowning. “I’m going to get closer to the stage. When I give the signal, cut the lights, then run like hell to take out that neutralizer. Once you do, get out of here. Rendezvous at the van. Understood?”

Blood dripped from the MP head’s hands, and it was obvious she was struggling not to scream.

“Just tell these fine people how to find your kind and it’ll all stop,” Hopkins said to her.

“Even the most cowardly dodger has more courage than you. Turn off that neutralizer and face me like a man.”

“As you say, I’m a coward, but not a fool. You won’t be unleashing your hellish songs any more. You can sing with the devil when you’re dead. Cut her.”

“Am I understood, soldier?”

The men who carried her onstage picked scalpels up off the instrument table, turning towards the bound witch with razor sharp edges dangerously bright in their hands. One cut a deep gash in the flesh of her leg, the other her arm. Constance gasped as her blood flowed, biting back another cry.

“Yes ma’am,” Scylla said, turning abruptly towards the ladder in the corner of the room. She silently climbed the metal rungs until she was just under the catwalk and waited.

Anacostia waded through the crowd up to the front of the stage, face eager to see more up close. Hopkins signalled for the men to pull back; as they took their place behind him everyone could see the slashes in her skin, dozens of terrifying red mouths smiling for the pain they caused. Anguished tears flowed down her face, crystal clear compared to the bright crimson pooling on the floor beneath her.

“I’m only going to ask one more time, witch. How can we find dodgers?”

Anacostia scratched her head.

Scylla pulled herself up onto the catwalk in a single fluid motion. She crouched, drawing two small daggers from her boots. Standing up, she let them fly just as the spotlight operator closest to her turned; first one, then the other buried itself in their target. One let out a strangled sound as he fell, and a few heads in the crowd turned to see what the commotion was.

Scylla raced towards them. A small light board sat between them, with most of the sliders pushed up. She stepped over the bodies and slid them all down before unplugging the spotlights, plunging the warehouse into darkness.

Confused murmurs rose up from below as she pulled her knives free.

“Everyone remain calm, I’m sure it’s just a power outage.”

With no one else on the catwalk Scylla sprinted along it, steps ringing out hollow against the metal. She could make out shapes of the people below her but not much else. The closer she came to the neutralizer, the harder it was for her to concentrate. All she had to do was reach the other side of the warehouse, turn the corner, and then only ten feet would separate her from silencing that thing once and for all.

A door opened at the corner ahead of her. The two front door guards stepped out, flashlights in hand. One light landed on the neutralizer, the other on Scylla. That one ran at her, feet thundering along the catwalk. She didn’t slow, preparing to meet him head-on. His arms were out to grab her. At the last second she pivoted, pressing herself against the wall, forearms braced against the railing. Drawing her legs up to her chest she kicked out hard, using his own momentum against him to knock him over the railing. His surprised yell ended with a loud thud, fallen flashlight landing on the stage.

She hoped Anacostia was faring well in the confusion. People were shouting but she was focused on the other guard who had now realized she was coming for him.

He turned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a whistle. He brought it to his lips and blew, the shrill sound filling the warehouse. One of her knives sank into his chest, the other his abdomen. He faltered, dropping the whistle, and then pulled one out with a squelching sound. Scylla watched in horror as he charged at her with a low growl, her brain moving a fraction too slow.

She ducked just before he reached her, foot still extended to trip him. He grazed her bicep with her own knife on his way down. She hissed in pain, her hand reflexively covering the wound as blood started to seep out of it. He landed hard on the catwalk, body lying at an awkward angle from the blade still in his chest.

Scylla closed the gap between her and the neutralizer, slamming it shut with her free hand. The relief was as instant as the quiet that followed.

She heard a windstrike below her, and chaos erupted.

The civilians bolted for the door in a panicked mass.

Two figures laid prone on the stage, unmoving. A third worked at the straps binding Constance to the upright table. She came away free as Scylla watched, stomach churning with unease, the two forms hobbling as fast as they could off the stage and towards safety.

Part of her knew deep down they had done the right thing. Military Police or not, Constance was a witch. Dying a gruesome death at the hands of witch hunters was the last thing she wished for any of them.

And yet.

The poetic justice of the hunter becoming prey to a bigger, nastier hunter would have been sweet on her tongue, soothing her pain all the way down.

Scylla picked up the neutralizer. It was heavier than she thought it would be. She retrieved her knives, wiping the blood off them on her last victim’s shirt. There was no remorse inside her this time as she studied his face in the pale beam from his flashlight, face made more horrid with the stark shadows cast on it. Two years in the army had had its effect on her after all. She put her knives back in her boots and headed for their rendezvous point, her stinging arm reminding her tonight’s events were real the whole way.

*~*~*

Raelle and Abigail were sitting at their desks, the room quiet except for the occasional turning of a page or scribbling down of notes. While War College was less physically exhausting it took a toll on them in other, more mentally draining ways. Raelle blinked; she’d been staring at the same sentence for the past few minutes, trying to force the words into her brain.

_ I’m shipping out tonight...I’ll be gone for a few days. _

Three days, seven hours, and twenty-five minutes had passed since the last time she’d seen Scylla.

Not that she was counting.

Not that her inability to focus was in any way connected to the fact that she couldn’t get that beautiful necro out of her head.

Scylla, alive.

Scylla, back at Form Salem. Indefinitely.

Those were the good thoughts.

Scylla, actively Spree.

Scylla, who hurt her as deeply as she loved her, roaming about freely in the world after escaping certain death in a Caribbean prison.

Scylla, who worked with her  _ own mother _ . (Although, giving her the benefit of the doubt, she hadn’t  _ known _ it was her mother until recently. Raelle chose to believe this one thing; if she didn’t, she doubted she’d be able to function at all.)

Those were the bad thoughts.

Willa Collar, alive. Willa Collar faked her own death, lied to her family, and joined a terrorist group. Led a call within said terrorist group.

Those were the ugly thoughts.

The ugly and bad were heavy, but the goods ones were fast. Ever since she saw Scylla again, freed of her chains and looking healthy again in the sunlight, hope had given them wings and made them faster.

Doubt, pain, lies, truth, hope.

How could she study battle strategies and fixing methods with those all chaotically raging in her heart, her soul?

“Can you keep it down? I can hear you thinking out loud all the way over here.”

Raelle turned in her chair, sarcastic reply dying on her lips when someone knocked on their door. Abigail raised an eyebrow, standing to open it. Anacostia stood on the other side, the hint of an apology in her eyes.

“Bellweather unit. In light of what happened to Private Craven, you’ve been assigned a new third. This is a bit of an unconventional choice, but these are unconventional circumstances. This is not,” a pause, “ideal for everyone involved, but it should only be temporary. Private,” she called out into the hall.

Raelle and Abigail shared a look. Who could they possibly have found to replace Tally?

In walked stunning blue eyes. Dark hair.

This was going to be trouble.

“Private Ramshorn will be your third. As far as everyone knows, she has been on an extended furlough and has just returned. Her training will resume as it was, and you two will continue in War College as you were. However, we expect your unit to be sparingly deployed on missions that require a certain level of secrecy and knowledge. If you start learning how to get along now, the better it will be for everyone in the long run.”

“You have got to be shitting me.”

Anacostia gave Raelle a withering look. Abigail glared at her out of the corner of her eye. Scylla didn’t react, keeping her face neutral.

“Sorry. You have got to be shitting me,  _ ma’am _ .”

“My orders come from the top, Collar. Of both organizations,” she added, looking at Scylla.

Raelle prickled at that.

“So we’re taking orders from the Spree now too, huh?”

“Watch your tone, Private Collar, or you’ll have guard duty for a week for insubordination.”

Raelle scoffed. “Yes ma’am. If you’ll excuse me, I have studying to do.” She turned away, walking stiffly back to her desk.

_ I’m sorry _ , Abigail mouthed to Anacostia.

The older woman just sighed. She looked so tired.

“As you were. I’ll leave you to settle in.”

With Anacostia gone Scylla just stood in the doorway looking between them, a small duffel bag of clothes and other belongings in her hands. Raelle pointedly stared at the book on her desk. Abigail looked at her and frowned, then looked back to Scylla.

“Tally had the top bunk.”

“Thanks,” Scylla nodded, setting her stuff down. She moved around the room gingerly, as if afraid of shattering the barely-held-together peace. As if her presence would be the thing that finally broke Raelle for good.

All of her things were put away in minutes.

An intense silence filled the room. Scylla had been glancing at Raelle the whole time, while the blonde seemed dead-set on pretending she was alone in the room. Scylla worried her bottom lip, perched on her bunk with a book in her lap, looking down at Raelle at her desk. She sighed, but made no other noise.

Abigail impatiently watched it all play out, waiting for one of them to say something.

Minutes ticked by.

“Oh no,” she finally said, “this is not going to go like this. I’m leaving, and if you two don’t have some sort of ground rules for interacting in place by the time I get back then both of you are sleeping somewhere else until you do.”

Abigail left, and still Raelle didn’t move.

“Raelle.”

The fixer stiffened, holding her breath.

“Abigail is right. We need to talk.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raelle and Scylla reach an understanding. The unit attends a debriefing on the Camarilla rally.

Whenever Raelle had imagined her and Scylla sharing a bedroom in the past, it was always them living alone in a cozy bungalow on a beach, sometimes with a pet or two, sometimes with a kid or two. Sometimes, both. They always seemed impossible, a dream so far out of reach that it was doomed to remain in her imagination forever.

Not once did she think Scylla would be looking down at her expectantly from Tally’s bunk, now her bunk, in the unit’s room in Circe. And she certainly didn’t think it would be under these circumstances.

Scylla watched her, waiting for her to speak. She pushed her chair away from the desk, angling it so she could look up at her better.

“Did you know they were going to place you with us?”

“Not until we came back from Boston. That was a test; they wanted to make sure I could still follow the rules.”

“What were you doing in Boston?”

“Camarilla rally,” Scylla shrugged.

“What?” She knew they were at war with the Camarilla, knew that Scylla was back specifically because of it. But sending her out into the field so soon, especially to hide in plain sight amongst  _ them _ , made the heat of her anger flicker to life, igniting against the match striker scar on her chest. “Why?”

“They had an announcement planned. We went to hear it, too.”

“Fucking reckless,” Raelle shook her head, standing up to pace the room, her hands balling into fists. “If those bastards found out who you are you could’ve been killed. You could’ve ended up like‒”

She cut off, stopping to look up at Scylla, eyes brimming with anguish.

“Like you,” Scylla finished quietly.

Raelle swallowed the thick lump of emotion in her throat down. She didn’t look away as she whispered, “I can’t lose you again.”

“You won’t, Rae.” Scylla climbed down off the bunk, tenderly wrapping her arms around her. Raelle leaned into the touch, holding onto her with gentle desperation.

“I can’t,” she repeated, voice shaking. “I’m not that strong.”

“You don’t have to be. I’m here. I came back, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“How can I believe that?” Raelle asked, pulling away. Unshed tears glistened as she continued, “How am I supposed to feel? Our whole relationship was built on lies. But the love is real? Anacostia told me yours was, and I know mine is. It’s still here,” she tapped her chest directly above her heart. She swallowed. “I lied, Scyl. I do care. I was terrified for you. The thought of you in a Caribbean prison kept me up at night. I wanted to comfort you, be there with you. But I can’t ignore the fact that I’m also just so, so...angry. At you, at my mom, at the army.

“And despite all of that all I want to do is hold you and tell you that everything’s going to be okay, but I can’t make that promise. I can’t even look at you half the time. What am I supposed to do?”

Scylla’s hands moved to her shoulders, gripping them firmly.

“I love you. That was never a lie.” Raelle looked away, biting her bottom lip. “Be angry. Be hurt. Do whatever you need to do, say whatever you need to say. Take all the time you need. If you need space, I’ll give it to you. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I mean it.”

Raelle was quiet. She hadn’t looked at Scylla the whole time she was talking. Her eyebrows furrowed as she frowned.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything. I swear to you that from now on there will be no more lies between us, Rae.”

“Why did you fall in love with me?”

Scylla blinked, taken aback; that was the last question she would have expected. She let her hands slide off Raelle’s shoulders and down her arms, taking the fixer’s healing hands into her own.

“Because of the way you wake up in the morning, warm and snuggly in your grogginess. Because of how your eyes light up right before you tell a joke, especially if it’s a dirty one. Because when I’m in your arms I feel the safest I’ve ever felt in my whole life, and that feeling is more precious to me than my own life. Because you’re kind, caring, selfless to a fault, and one of the bravest women I know. And because, Raelle, you see me in a way no one else does.”

Raelle looked at her again, a small sadness in the depths of her eyes. Scylla met them, unflinching.

“Who did I fall in love with? Real Scylla, or fake Scylla?”

She took a deep breath, considering the question. Raelle waited, watching her.

“A little bit of both. Everything I told you about me was true, but I didn’t tell you everything. I tried, I wanted to, to gather up the courage to tell you about the Spree, about my mission. I did.”

“But you never told me.” There was no anger in her voice now, just simple resignation and a touch of disappointment.

“I never got the chance. My orders were to deliver you at the Bellweather wedding. I was having serious doubts; they refused to tell me anything, wouldn’t tell me for certain that you would be safe. I really thought we could’ve done it. Could’ve gone to the beach and run away together. I would have told you everything, then and there, and accepted your answer either way. But instead you asked me to dance, and…” She shrugged, tears welling in her eyes. “You know what happened next.”

Raelle nodded. She knew all too well what came after the wedding.

“I was certain I’d die in prison. I was certain you didn’t love me anymore, certain that you hated me‒”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t ‒ I don’t. I could never truly hate you, Scyl. But you hurt me so much. I thought I’d never see you again, and some shitty part of me had to hurt you in some way, too. I’d take it all back, if I could.”

“I would, too.”

They were both crying, held fast in each other’s arms. Just as the ocean meets the sky, kissing it with its roiling waves on the horizon, their foreheads touched together. Their breathing synchronized as two hearts beat as one with shared pain, shared sadness, shared love.

“We can’t just go back to the way things were,” Raelle said softly, wiping away her tears.

“I know,” Scylla said. “Could we start over?”

“I’m willing to try if you are.”

Scylla pulled away from her, taking a deep breath. Holding out her hand, she said, “Hi, I’m Scylla Ramshorn. What’s your name?”

“Raelle Collar,” Raelle said, shaking her hand. “I’d offer to walk you back to your room but it looks like we’re already here.”

“You sure do move fast, Miss Collar,” she said, smiling through the remnants of their tears.

“Only when the most beautiful woman I’ve seen is involved.”

They laughed, a tentative, cautious sound that grew to fill the space inside their chests with hope. Raelle leaned in towards her, the invitation open. Scylla closed the gap, pressing their lips together gently. Raelle’s hand touched her left arm and Scylla hissed in pain, pulling back.

“What, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a little cut.”

“That reaction doesn't seem like nothing. Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Scylla removed her jacket. Medical wrap sat tight against her skin, wrapped around a small pile of gauze where the guard had sliced her.

“May I?”

“It’s nothing, Raelle. Really.” Scylla held her arm out anyway.

Gentle fingers unwound the wrapping and removed the gauze. Raelle’s eyes narrowed when she saw the wound, a clean slice a few inches long, angling down her girl… Scylla’s arm.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“What started out as a recon mission turned into a rescue mission. Things got a little heated.”

“Why didn’t you get this fixed?”

“The person we rescued was higher priority. It took both me and Anacostia to stabilize her enough to get back to base.”

“Still,” Raelle huffed. “Let me take care of it.”

“It’s fine, Raelle. It’ll heal on its own.” Scylla moved to pull her arm away; Raelle held it, firm but gentle.

“Or I could fix it and be done with it.”

“Raelle.”

“Scylla.”

Their gazes locked, each too stubborn to back down and let the other have her way.

“Just let her do it, necro. She won’t quit bugging you until you do.”

A startled Raelle glanced at Abigail leaning against the door frame, then back to Scylla. “She’s right, I won’t.”

Scylla sighed. “Fine.”

“All right,” Raelle nodded, placing her hands on Scylla’s arm, fingertips just brushing the skin on either side of the cut. Power laced through her voice and a gentle, calming heat rushed to her hands as she spoke. “Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find…”

_ Cession summer heat. The hum of AC units. _

_ Harsh pounding on a front door that doesn’t belong to her. _

_ A peek through gauzy blue curtains but all she can see is fear, in the form of the Military Police logo. _

_ Fear cold as ice in her veins, tiptoeing through a ramshackle space. _

_ Stifling heat in a garage. _

_ Fear spiking into glaciers at the sound of car doors and her parents’ voices. _

_ Their backs as they kneeled on the ground, surrendering. _

_ The glint of knives, and two bright spurts of blood _ ‒

Raelle broke the link, heart pounding in her chest. Scylla was looking at her, her mouth set in a thin apprehensive line.

“I didn’t know‒”

“There’s no way you could have.” She shook her head, voice quietly sad.

“Scyl, I’m...I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Do I need to leave again?” Abigail asked from her desk.

“No,” Scylla said, checking her arm. There was no sign of there ever being anything wrong with it. “I think we’ve done what you asked.”

“I think you did more than what I asked,” the blaster muttered into her book.

“I need some fresh air,” Raelle announced.

“Do you want company?”

“N-no, I need to, to be alone for a bit. Clear my head.”

Raelle left, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. Scylla stood in the middle of the room, hands fidgeting as she looked at the now-closed door. Thoughts churned in her mind; what had Raelle seen in that memory that sent her over the edge?

Abigail’s chair scraped against the floor. She had pushed back away from the desk and was studying Scylla with her arms folded over her chest.

“What’s your play here, necro?”

“I don’t have any,” Scylla said, slipping her neutral mask on as she had done so many times before. The last thing she needed was High Atlantic on her case, too.

“Right. It’s just so coincidental for you to suddenly be back on base  _ and _ placed in our unit. You had  _ nothing _ to do with it.”

“I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe that .”

“You don’t have to. Between Alder and Willa I’ve‒”

“Wait. Willa?” Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “As in, Raelle’s mom, Willa?”

“That’s the one. Only, she’s a little less dead than everyone thinks, and a lot more Spree.”

“Shit,” Abigail leaned back in her chair. “That explains the other night.”

“What happened?”

“Raelle had a breakdown. She spent three hours in the rough room beating herself up, then came here and cried for two more. Everyone on the floor heard her. She asked me why everyone lied to her as a form of protection.”

Scylla felt something twist in her stomach, knowing she was one of those people. She stared at the pillow on the lower bunk. How many nights were spent lying there staring at the bottom of another mattress as hours ticked by with the moon overhead? How many nights had her lover cried herself to sleep?

How many of those sleepless nights were Scylla’s fault?

“You hurt her real bad, necro. She pulled a lot of reckless shit after...when you went missing. Tally and I found her washed up on a beach near Marblehead, nearly overdosed on salva. She’s lucky she didn’t die.”

Scylla took a deep breath. The chain around her heart that belonged to Raelle constricted tighter, a deep ache that couldn’t stop.

“She touched a mushroom in your department’s building, looking for you. Sergeant L’Amara thinks that might have something to do with the witch bomb.”

“The mycelium? No one’s allowed to touch that.”

“No one bothered to tell her that.”

“Not that she would have listened anyway.”

Abigail chuckled, shaking her head. No, Raelle would not have listened. 

She leveled her gaze at her. “Listen. Raelle is my sister. I know she loved you, and I know she still does. You were the last thing on her mind while she was dying. It was kind of romantic in a sappy, tragic sort of way. But now that you two are physically back together, I promise that if you hurt her again in any way I  _ will _ make you pay for it.”

Scylla smirked. “There’s the High Atlantic I know and love.”

“I mean it. Swift and total annihilation.”

“I’ll make sure I have my running shoes on then. Make it interesting.”

“Two second head start.”

“That’s plenty of time.”

“Whatever, necro,” Abigail grinned.

Scylla climbed back up to her bed as silence settled in once more. She knew they weren’t just idle words; Abigail meant her threat. She let them hover over her like a sword held at bay by the barest of threads.

Little did Abigail know that whatever she had planned for Scylla would pale in comparison to what she’d do to herself if she hurt or lost Raelle again.

*~*~*

The briefing room was more packed than usual, now that several out-of-town generals were on base to help deal with the Camarilla. Anacostia was sitting in the front row next to sergeant L’Amara. A handful of the top military police brass were present, too.

Raelle felt Scylla stiffen behind her when they walked in, following Abigail to their usual spot in the back. She sat between the two; on her right Abigail leaned back in her chair, as relaxed as she could get in these briefings, while on her left Scylla sat straight-backed, muscles tense as if she were ready to bolt at a moments’ notice. Raelle looked at her questioningly but she stared up at the front of the room, hardly blinking.

The flash of the MP symbol from Scylla’s sepia-toned memory came to her mind. She looked at the other witches sitting near the front with the same logo on their arms. They were talking quietly amongst themselves, all but one with red hair pulled back into a severe bun. She sat there listening to the others, mouth drawn into a taut line that screamed she’d rather be anywhere else but here. She looked like the kind of exhausted that only comes after days of sleep deprived panic.

Scylla had that same look about her not too long ago.

Raelle had seen it in her own mirror. It was as familiar as her smile, and her frown.

She placed her hand on Scylla’s thigh, open palm facing upwards in invitation. Scylla jumped at the touch, glancing at the hand, then Raelle. She let out a shaky breath and gripped it tightly in her own.

“You okay?” Raelle asked.

“Totally,” Scylla replied with forced lightness. They both knew it was a lie, but they both knew now wasn’t the time or the place.

Alder and her biddies strolled in. They wasted no time as they took their places, the room growing quiet.

“Two days ago the army and the Spree conducted a joint mission to infiltrate the Camarilla. Intelligence reports stated that they were planning on making a major announcement. It was very lucky that we did; what was originally meant to be a reconnaissance only mission turned into a rescue one.

“The Camarilla have grown bolder than we ever could have imagined in so short of a time frame. They captured and tortured Constance Clearwater, head of our military police presence in the Cession. Their plan was to use her knowledge on how to locate dodgers so they could find those hidden witches and steal their vocal cords in order to power their black voice boxes. This places all of us, most especially our military police, in grave danger. We must be ever vigilant around civilians, even more so than before. Constance?”

Alder stepped aside. The red haired MP stood slowly to replace her at the podium. Blinking in the harsh lights, she took a deep breath and began speaking.

“As a civilian organization, the Camarilla are everywhere and nowhere at once. I had no idea they had returned. Just like everyone else I assumed they were long gone, their hateful ideology extinguished over a century ago. It is not, and they are not, gone or discouraged in any way.

“I was out at a bar with other MP, all of us off-duty and in plain clothes. We were having the long-overdue celebration for my promotion to department head. I called a cab and left in it, alone and more than a little tipsy. By the time I realized we weren’t heading to my apartment it was too late. We were going down a dark, empty street when suddenly a neutralizer kicked in and he stopped the car. Two others in ski masks came out of nowhere and climbed in the backseat with me. The last thing I remember is a sickly-sweet smell cloth covering my nose and mouth while I fought against them.

“They held me captive for well over a week. I was transported from the middle of the Cession to Boston in filthy vehicles, gagged and restrained the whole way. I was beaten. I was sleep deprived. They used me as a tool onstage, entertainment for their underlings while I was tortured. I thought I was going to die on that stage, an example for vocal cord extraction. I almost was.

“I urge each and every one of you to be extra cautious as you move around off-base. Trust your intuition. The Camarilla are no joke. They will do anything and everything within their power to hurt you, and they will do it with the utmost joy. Do  _ not _ give them the chance.”

Constance swallowed, looking over everyone in the room. Her gaze found Scylla in the back row and she took a deep breath before returning to her seat. Scylla tensed again, squeezing Raelle’s hand so hard it hurt. Raelle let her do it despite the pain; she would let her do it as long as she needed to.

Everything Scylla told her was true, but Scylla hadn’t told her everything.

Family was one of her least favorite topics. Whenever Raelle asked Scylla would, well, dodge the question.

_ My parents didn’t serve. _ A great morning turned sour.

_ I heard the army killed her folks, _ she said through Helen’s Graves’ voice.  _ Draft dodgers. _

Raelle never learned when, or how, it happened. Never imagined Scylla was there, witnessing it firsthand.

It was devastating to learn her own mother had died, but it was a detached, distant thing. She couldn’t have pointed out Liberia on a map the day the news came. No body to recover meant no body to mourn, no way to feel the weight of it like an iceberg on her chest. She felt her loss like a deep ache in her soul, the knowledge of losing something that would never return feeling hollowly intangible. All she had left to make it feel real were letters, and scattered memories, and a combat charm.

Scylla had her parents’ blood spilling in her mind as fresh as the day it happened. The image of their bodies falling lifeless to the ground, blurry through tears and voiceless cries.

That must be the content of the nightmares she’d have, waking suddenly with her chest heaving and heart pounding, tangled in sweaty sheets. Raelle comforted her as best she could those nights (and there were plenty of them), but Scylla would never give a name to the demons haunting her at night.

They had no individual names, except the collective one: military police.

Raelle squeezed Scylla’s hand in response. She glanced at her, anxiety clear in the lines of her face.

Anacostia took the podium next.

“The rally was held in an abandoned warehouse in Boston’s warehouse district. There were approximately one hundred civilians in attendance, and seven high-ranking Camarilla and their guards as well. Disguised with glamour magic, private Ramshorn and I were instructed to blend in, gather intel, and leave with no enemy engagement unless absolutely necessary. It became evident early on that that would not remain an option.

“We have confirmed that the leader of the Camarilla in the U.S., Matthew Hopkins, and his second in command, Nicola Remy, were the two involved in the demonstration. There was a silencer in use above the stage. This is the first confirmed time, to our knowledge, of their using one at a rally.

“First they announced that their Russian counterparts were helping fund their voice box production. They will be mass-produced and distributed to their members, presumably worldwide. We are still working to find where production is happening, and once we do, how to halt it.

“Then they brought Captain Clearwater to the stage, bound and gagged, tying her to the upright medical table. She was questioned on how to find dodgers. When she refused to speak they put her in thumbscrews, and then cut her multiple times. I ordered private Ramshorn to take out the lights and silencer so I could extract her. Hopkins and Remy fled to safety when someone blew a whistle to alert them. I neutralized their two guards with a windstrike and then freed the captain. We made our way to the rendezvous point where private Ramshorn and I stabilized her enough to return to base. I am absolutely certain that if we had not intervened Captain Clearwater would be dead now, and her vocal cords would belong to the Camarilla.”

Something in Scylla’s face had hardened while Anacostia spoke. Her left hand flexed in and out of a fist, her jaw clenched as the sergeant recounted their mission. Something about Constance Clearwater set Scylla on edge; Raelle just didn’t know what or why.

She studied the brunette’s face, trying to discern any trace of pain she could soothe away. Her hands could ease physical pain, but she had yet to learn how to take on someone’s mental or emotional burdens. Invisible scars were the hardest to heal, she knew that firsthand.

But there were other ways.

If they were going to do this (and they  _ were _ going to do this, the past be damned) then she’d be there to listen when the time was right, when Scylla was ready.

It was a darkly ironic twist of fate that Raelle had another chance with her mother, and with Scylla. They were getting a shot at redemption that Scylla’s parents never would. That had to count for something; second chances were rare, especially for them.

Raelle vowed to do everything in her power to ensure that it wasn’t wasted.

**Author's Note:**

> Now accepting headcanons on tumblr, @captainjeclid


End file.
